Picture Perfect
by chaserzachsmith
Summary: Michael Corner and Terry Boot were best friends. Totally. There was nothing wrong at all with their friendship. Nothing. (Quick peeks into Terry Boot's first year.)


_2 September, 1991_

Terry's trunk was sort of a mess, but he managed to find pants, shirt, trousers, and socks without spilling the rest of his crap everywhere, which he thought was pretty impressive. He could barely see even when it was light. Just then, with only the light coming from the first hints of dawn through the window, he was practically blind. Even with his glasses on. It was probably ridiculous, rummaging around in the dark for no reason other than modesty, a modesty that is, when he thinks about it, a little absurd.

But when he got into the restroom, it was already occupied, by one of his roommates, the short, weird, sort of twitchy one with the big nose. Terry was tempted to say he was a Matthew or something, but that didn't seem right. Not-Matthew was fully dressed, but he pulled his arms protectively to his chest as though to shield it.

"Sorry," said Terry, already backing away.

"No, no, it's okay," said Not-Matthew. "Sorry."

"Sorry," repeated Terry.

Not-Matthew shook his head. "No, no, you're okay! Sorry."

Terry put his clothes bundle on a sink a few away from Not-Matthew. "I didn't expect anyone else to be up," he said. "That's why I'm up so early."

"Yeah, me too," said Not-Matthew. "It's Terry, right?"

"Yeah," said Terry. He contemplated asking for Not-Matthew's name; he was saved a moment later.

"I'm Michael. Do you like Ravenclaw?"

Terry shrugged. "I think so. It surprised me." Terry's family had been fully Gryffindor for five generations, and he'd assumed he'd be too.

"Me too," said Michael. He flattened the towel against himself and folded it neatly into thirds. Unfolded it and folded it into fourths. Unfolded it again.

Terry realised, suddenly, that Michael probably wanted to be left alone to shower. He cleared his throat. "I… think I forgot toothpaste," he said. "I'm gonna go back and get it."

Michael gave him a weird look and nodded.

 _October 31, 1991_

"How does a _troll_ get into the castle?" said Michael. "I dunno, you'd think the school would have spells or something around it. Not to mention the walls. Or- Terry, you don't think the troll smashed through the walls, do you?"

"I doubt it," said Terry. "They're pretty thick."

"Imagine if it _did_ ," said Michael. "What if the troll is just-"

Terry liked Michael. Really, he did. Michael was weird, maybe, but he was also funny, genuinely funny. But, _God_ , he could not shut up. "Mike, I'm sure it's okay. The teachers have it under control. Probably."

Michael nodded. "Right."

Pause.

"Do you reckon it's hard? Fighting a troll, I mean."

"Nah, you learn how in sixth year Defence," said a seventh year from the next table. "It's not too difficult. They have weak spots, you just have to target them."

"Why sixth year?" said Michael, latching onto the topic. "What if someone doesn't take it past the OWLs and then they get attacked by a troll?"

Terry laughed. "How likely is that?"

"It's a very real possibility!" said Michael.

Yeah. He had no idea when to shut up. Terry laughed anyway.

 _December 2, 1991_

"Are you going home for the holidays?" Michael asked him.

Terry was getting tired of Michael, and he rather suspected that Michael was tired of him. They were exhausting people. For one thing, Michael always seemed to need attention. For another thing, Terry was very frequently more immature than necessary.

"Yeah," said Terry. "Are you?"

"Yeah," said Michael.

There was a pause. Terry doubted Michael was going to leave it at that.

Sure enough, Michael pressed on. "I haven't seen my parents in forever. I don't think I ever went so long without seeing them."

"Once I didn't see mine for five years," says Terry. They'd been in Azkaban. He'd stayed with his grandparents. But he didn't say that.

"Wow, that's a while," said Michael. He was probably curious, because he _always_ was, but he didn't pry, and Terry was immeasurably grateful. "My mum was pregnant when I left. Do you think she had the baby?"

"Probably not," said Terry. "You'd think they'd have written you."

"Oh, yeah," said Michael. He froze, as if he'd had a sudden thought. "Terry, what if the baby died and that's why I didn't hear about it being born?"

"I doubt it," said Terry. "Wouldn't your parents have written?"

"They don't really write that often," said Michael. "Maybe they didn't get a chance."

"Michael," Terry said. "Your mum and the baby are probably fine."

"Yeah," said Michael. "Right. Sorry."

"Calm down," said Terry.

"Right," said Michael. He sounded a little sheepish now, a little embarrassed. They were quiet for a moment.

"Why do you always come up with the worst explanation for things?" Terry said. "First the troll, then the Quidditch match, then the other Quidditch match, then Potions the other day-"

"I dunno," said Michael. "Just paranoid, I guess. It's a little stupid."

"No, I was just wondering," said Terry. He laughed and bumped Michael with his shoulder. "Someone has to be the morbid one."

"Yeah," said Michael.

 _14 February, 1992_

"What do you even do on Valentine's Day?" said Michael, smoothing one hand over his bristly hair. "My parents used to go out at night, but I don't know what they did."

Terry had an idea what they did. He doesn't tell Michael that.

"It's a lame holiday," agreed Terry.

"I didn't say _that_ ," said Michael. "I just wish I could go on a date with someone. I think it'd be cool to have a girlfriend. Don't you?"

Terry had never really thought about girls. "Maybe," he said. "I dunno."

"Well, I do," said Michael. He rubs his hand over his mouth. "Do you reckon any girls would like me?"

"Yeah," said Terry, not really paying attention. "You have a nice face."

"I do?" said Michael.

"Yeah."

"I dunno. I always thought my nose was weird. Too big," said Michael, and he tapped his nose with a finger, as though checking that it was there.

"It's fine. You look fine." Michael's nose _was_ a bit big, but it kind of suited him. Kind of added to the shrewd, twitchy look.

"Thanks," said Michael.

 _30 May, 1992_

"Brilliant game," Michael kept saying.

"You're only saying that because we won," said Terry. "It was pathetic."

"It was great," said Michael. He was separating his peas and his carrots, very methodically. He drove Terry mad sometimes. They were just _vegetables._

"They didn't put up enough of a fight," said Terry. "It was too one-sided. What you want is a close game. Those are fun to watch."

Sometimes, Terry felt like Michael started arguments just to kill time, to have something to do. It was kind of irritating, just because Terry could never make himself care enough about stupid Quidditch to have a good fight. He liked Michael. He really did. He liked the fun debates they had sometimes, the ones where they were just making fun. He didn't like the ones where Michael got weirdly contrary and tried to argue everything.

"If it's a close game, it makes me nervous," said Michael.

"Yeah, that's the point," said Terry.

"You have a good point," says Anthony Goldstein, across the table from them. "It's more satisfying to watch your team steal a win than to watch your team crush the other side."

"I liked the crushing," said Michael.

Terry didn't care for Anthony, who was weird and annoying and earnest about everything he did and said. He was the kind of person who tried to be friends with everyone and, as a result, had no friends.

"But then it's not a surprise," said Anthony.

"I don't like surprises," said Michael.

"A good surprise is one of the best feelings," countered Anthony.

"And a bad surprise is one of the worst," said Michael.

Anthony grinned. "You have to experience the worst to appreciate the best."

"Cliche," said Michael.

"Touche," Anthony replied.

Michael broke into a smile. Terry looked from Michael to Anthony, then back to Michael. Both of them are smiling. Michael looked as though he'd never had a better conversation in his life.

Terry had one last, coherent thought.

 _Oh, no._


End file.
